


It, or I May Know the Word

by The_Immaculate_Bastard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, One Shot, Winterfell, a bit fluffy, somewhat syrupy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 09:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Immaculate_Bastard/pseuds/The_Immaculate_Bastard
Summary: Sansa muses on Sandor, and the thing she does not say.





	It, or I May Know the Word

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I came up with while procrastinating on the 50 pages that are due in two weeks for grad school. I have not proofread, but wanted to publish something since it's been ages and I feel like the creative juices are returning to me.

Sansa can feel it in his touch, even when _he_ is silent. She can tell it when he kisses her, when his mouth is on her forehead or her neck or her breast. She thinks it’s there we he kisses her lower too, though she usually finds herself too preoccupied to think straight during those moments. She knows it’s there for her when she takes him into her mouth, hears him sigh, “Little bird,” which always makes her blush. She senses it’s there when he holds her afterwards too, but she never hears him say it.

She does hear his heart beat, and that must meansomething. Racing next to her ear as she rests her head on his chest afterwards, or vibrating against her own chest as he moves inside of her. She suspects it must be present when he comes inside of her, when he asks her to come for him, when he cries out at the feel of her surrounding him, but she wants more.

She knows the lack of wine when they break their fast means something too, just as the watered wine at dinner does as well. She thinks he means it when he saves his lemoncake for her. She means it when she saves her roasted turnips for him, or when she requests roast chickens from the cook for the dinners in the Great Hall. There must be something in the lemon tree he bought from a Dornish merchant, just as her regular purchases of Dornish Sour. But she doubts it matters when he waters it down.

But the moments he looks at her stitching of his tunics must tell her something. All the times he mocked her for her sewing, and yet he takes the time to admire what she made for him. She meant to show him she cared, that she wanted him to be warm and to look nice in the garments she made for him. But he never says anything. Just grunts as he pulls it over his head. She feels proud to see him wearing her stitches, to mark him as hers. Yet she wants more. She wants to know he’s proud to wear her work before Winterfell, the people who watched her grow up, watched her retake the castle, watched her say her vows to him and his to her. “Thank you, little bird,” is what she hears instead, and it suffices for a time, but then she remembers what she really wants, what he hasn’t said to her, what she hasn’t said either.

At night, he’ll reach for her and call out her name. “Little bird,” she’ll hear him whisper, can hear the tears in his voice, can feel the wetness on his face. “It’s alright,” she tells him, kissing him on his forehead and his cheeks—both of them, so he knows she means it. “I’m here.” _I’m here for you_ , she means, but she doesn’t say that. He trusts her enough to cry in front her, and she thinks there must be something in that, but then again he’s done it before and she’s not certain he felt anything back then. He never talks about it, other than when he apologized after his arrival at Winterfell years ago, just as the winter sank its teeth into the North.

Of course, the way they warm each other at night. Not just when they find pleasure with each other, but when her legs intertwine with his, when the hair on his calves and thighs tickle her and she muffles a giggle so he won’t take it personally—he gets sensitive about his body in ways she never imagined a soldier of his ability could. She finds ways to let him know what he can still do, despite the mass of scar on his thigh. She buries her head into the nook of his underarm, and rubs his stomach, not letting the gashes and marks from a lifetime of fighting interrupt her hands. _Don’t fight me_ , she hopes he understands. The scars don’t mean anything to her, not anymore, and his warmth and his presence bring her more comfort than his skill with a blade ever could.

But something changes when the winter winds take on a new chill. Bran grows colder, withdraws into his solar for days while Sansa manages the castle. _The snows have already come, yet winter is still coming_ , she thinks nervously as she watched Sandor train men in the yard. An army outside the gates of Winterfell, made up of wildlings, black brothers, Unsullied, Dothraki, Knights of the Vale, and the remnants of the North and the Riverlands, fail to bring her any comfort. “They are coming,” the Red Priestess and Bran had both said. The armies of men will fight, or at least most of them. Jon and the Dragon Queen begin making plans. Sandor will march north with them.

Sansa tries to be clearer. She takes care to line his armor with leather, to learn what items can be lined with wool so he will be warm beyond the Wall without losing his precision or range of motion. It will be cold without him at Winterfell, but she knows it will be colder for him up there, without the hot springs of the castle, without their featherbed, without her.

For their final meal together, before the armies of men begin their march northward, she requests roast chicken from the cook, asks for extra potatoes, and prepares a flagon of Dornish Sour to share. He surprises her with two lemoncakes, and she insists he eat at least half of his instead of leaving the whole thing for her.

He takes his time with her that night, takes his time caressing her, like he’s trying to learn all of the curves of her hips and thighs. He makes her cry out his name as he licks her, slowly, like the best torture. When she returns the favor, she hears him breathe out her name, or at least her nickname, and she can’t bring herself to care enough to blush. This is their final night together, perhaps forever. She wants him to know. She wants him to feel her. This is their chance to say goodbye. This could be enough for her, she thinks.

But there is one more goodbye. In the yard, with Daenerys ready to climb onto Drogon and Jon onto Rhaegal, Stranger stands among the horses of the other lords of the North and Sandor barks orders at Gendry to keep the castle’s forge hot and the swords coming for the household guard. Sansa waits by the archway to the Great Hall, not sure if she’s ready for the army to leave, for Sandor to be gone. He looks her way, and she feels a smile on her mouth, even in her grief at the war to come. _Just breathe_ , she tells herself as she approaches her husband.

“Sandor,” she says quickly, feeling like she would start weeping any moment, or change her mind. “I love you.”

His eyes widen slightly, though the rest of his face remains the same. _It’s his mask_ , she knows, and she wouldn’t want anything else, not the expressive white knight offering her laurels and flowers as he departed to fight the monster.

“Tell me you love me,” she says softly. “Even if you don’t feel the same way, if you don’t feel as strongly. Just say the words to me. I don’t care if they’re a lie. I need you to say it.”

If it’s possible, Sandor looks even more surprised at this, and a scowl begins to grow.

“Please,” she must be pleading now, and she knows she should feel embarrassed at her behavior, “just say it.”

She can feel the tears forming in the corner of her eyes, and she tries to fight them. She doesn’t want him to feel guilty. _I shouldn’t force this, not now. He needs to think about the march and encampment and survival_.

“I’m sorry—”

“Sansa,” he says quietly, his voice cracking lightly. “I love you.”

The tears come anyway. It’s been years, since he arrived at the gates, since he pledged himself to her, since they said the vows in the godswood.

“And I made a vow never to lie to you,” he said, simultaneously bitter and defensive.

Sansa nods at him, wiping tears from her cheeks when he reaches for her, his rough hands on both sides of her face, the pads of his thumb brushing them away for her. She gives him a smile, and a watery laugh. She thinks she might cry herself to sleep still. _He said it, and he’s leaving_. It makes her happier than she ever imagined to hear it, but now he would march, he would fight, and he might not come back. She’d wasted years not saying anything, and now he would leave.

“Promise you’ll come back,” she says, staring at the grey wool tunic poking out from under his armor, the one she dyed herself thinking of how it would match his eyes, like that matters beyond the wall. _But it matters to me_ , she thinks, _and maybe to him_. “Promise me, Sandor.”

“I promise,” he breathes into her hair. “Little bird.”

He kisses her forehead, cruel lips she’s fantasized about for longer than she’s ever admitted. _Little bird_ , she thinks. She feels his lips press against hers, and she responds, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, standing on her toes just to reach him.

She can hear the horses mustering, hooves stomping on the frozen ground, and restless flap of a dragon’s wings. _It’s time_ , she thinks, her heart heavier than before she opened her mouth.

Sandor lets go of her, rubbing his thumbs across her cheeks one last time. He turns and walks towards Stranger, mounting him with little help or hesitance. He looks to her again.

“There are two more lemoncakes in the kitchen,” she hears him say.

She smiles, and feels tears coming again.

“Lemoncakes are my favorite,” is all she can muster, but she sees the curl of the unscarred half of his lip, and knows it will suffice.

“I know, little bird,” he sighs. He nods one last time, curtly, in ways that her mother would have found rude, but in a way that is so very Sandor that Sansa cannot bring herself to care.

 _Little bird_ , she thinks ruefully as Sandor directors Stranger to the gate. _How many times have I heard him say it_?

 _He’ll come back_ , she commits to herself. _And I will tell him every day_. She owes him that much after all these years he’s been telling it to her.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm not sure if I accomplished what I set out to do. I had this idea and thought about saving it for a different longer fic, but I wanted to test it out in a different format. Feedback is welcome. As is grammar/spelling help...


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